Poor Peg.

Poor Peggy lov’d a soldier-lad,
More, far more, than tongue can tell ye;
Yet was her tender bosom sad,
Whene’er she heard the loud réveillez:
The fifes were screech-owls to her ears,
The drums like thunder seem’d to rattle;
Ah! Too prophetic were her fears,—
They call’d him from her arms to battle!
There wonders he against the foe
Perform’d, and was with laurels crown’d;
Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low
On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth,
That none her fears or flight discover,
Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth,
Follow’d to the field her lover.
Directed, by the fife and drum,
to where the work of deat was doing,—
Where of brave hearts the time was come,
who, seeking honor, grasp at ruin,—
Her very soul was chill’d with woe!
New horror came in ev’ry sound,
And whisper’d death had laid him low
On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood,
While her woman’s fears confound her,
With terror all her soul subdu’d,
A mourning train came thronging round her:
The plaintive fife and muffled drum
The Martial obsequies discover;
His name she heard, and cried, ‘I come,
Faithful to meet my murder’d love!’
Then, heart-rent by a sigh of woe,
Fell, to the grief of all around,
Where death had laid her lover low,
On the cold ground!